


Prompt 2 (Altea)

by Yoselin



Series: L&L Tumblr Prompts [2]
Category: Love & Legends (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 21:57:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13280667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yoselin/pseuds/Yoselin
Summary: Originally posted to Tumblr.Prompt: “It’s not as bad as it looks, I swear.”Altea / MC





	Prompt 2 (Altea)

“It’s not as bad as it looks, I swear.”  
My statement sounds false and hesitant even to my ears. Altea makes a face and sets down the half made blanket. Her fists press to her hands and she groans at the back of her throat.  
“No, it looks worse,” she states.  
I move beside her and gather the blanket in my hands. The poorly stitched fabric certainly wouldn’t win any awards, but it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever seen.  
“It’s not that bad, Altea, honest. Your bunny came out cute,” I try to reassure her.  
Another groan. “That’s supposed to be a Raven.”  
I pale and cough awkwardly. My hands smooth out the blanket and I hold it up to my face.  
“T-that’s what I meant. Your raven is adorable. I’m just-I’m sure he’ll love it,” I smile.  
Altea takes the fabric from me and bunches it up in a ball. Her face looks frustrated and tired. My heart aches for her.  
She has spent the last few days trying to knit out a blanket as best she can, but her attempts have born no fruit.  
The same woman who can turn the tide of war with a simple spell, scatter armies with a furious chant, and defeat an evil force with a twirl of a staff, can not for the life of her knit.  
It’s almost funny.  
Not entirely. But almost.  
Altea begins to pick at the fabric, fingers trying to undo it. I stop her with my hands and offer her a reassuring smile.  
“Really, Altea, it’s ok. I think it’s adorable, and I’m sure he’ll like it too.”  
Altea shakes her head. She makes a face for the umpteenth time and tries to pry the fabric from my fingers.  
“It’s not supposed to be adorable, my Raven. This is an important tradition from my homeland, and it’s not one that I can take lightly. All first time parents are supposed to make a blanket for their newborns as a sign of goodwill and luck. If I can’t even manage that simple task, what does that say about me?”  
She sounds sad as she says this, and my heart breaks. I place my hands over hers again and link our fingers together.  
“It says that you will be a wonderful mother either way. Altea, it’s just a blanket. We can always buy a blanket from somewhere, honest. He doesn’t have to know,” I soothe. I guide her hands over my womb.  
I’m not showing yet, the potion we used works at the same rate as a regular pregnancy, but the gesture is still enough to calm her.  
I feel her relax as her fingers skim over my stomach. Still, however, she looks torn.  
“I just want to do something special for him. My little Raven deserves a nice blanket from me. I can’t even give him that,” she closes her eyes.  
I squeeze her hand and turn my gaze to the blanket once more.  
It’s not the prettiest thing in the world, the patterns are uneven in some spaces and the ‘ravens’ look too much like rabbits, but there’s something so endearing about it that makes me smile.  
“It is a nice blanket,” I reply. When she opens her mouth to counter it, I press on. “Hush. It is a lovely blanket. It’s not the prettiest one out there, but it’s still beautiful. Do you know why?”  
Silence. I continue on.  
“Because you made it, Altea. You spent days trying to make it, and you stitched it with love. Our son will know this when he sleeps with it. It’s really not as bad as it looks. Heck, if I saw it in a store, I’d buy it.”  
To prove my point, I pick it up and drape it over my stomach and lap. Altea traces her fingers over her design, grimacing whenever she finds errors.  
“I messed up on here, and here, and here...”  
She taps every inch of the blanket and I shake my head.  
“It doesn’t matter. I like it, and I’m sure our son will too. It’s cute,” I smile.  
Altea grows silent. Her chin rests on her hand and she regards me silently. Her eyes trace over the blanket once more before sighing. She opens her mouth, looks for something to say, before finally voicing her thoughts.  
“Do you really think he will like it?”  
I giggle quietly and run my fingers over the corner of the fabric. It’s soft and warm.  
“He’ll love it-especially because his mother made it.”  
This relaxes her a bit. Sighing, her head comes to rest on my shoulder. I lean mine on top of hers.  
“This tradition is a huge deal in my country. I prized the quilt my mother made me with her own hands until I left. I just wanted to make something for my son that he would also treasure. Something without magic. Something more personal,” she closes her eyes.  
“And he will treasure it because he will know you made it with love. I promise,” I extend an edge of it to her and drape it over her lap. “See? It’s nice and warm, just like you.”  
Altea smiles then, a radiant smile that still takes my breath away, and I feel her finally relax. Her hands rest over my womb and trace a pattern of the quilt. Her eyes close softly and she presses a warm kiss to my cheek.  
“I really hope he’ll enjoy it,” she whispers. Her fingers knot into the fabric and she holds it over herself.  
I giggle lightly, sensing that she’s finally going to sleep after painstakingly stitching each thread of fabric for nights on end, and press even closer to her. Like her creation, she is warm and soft.  
“He will when he knows his mommy did it for him without magic,” I murmur.  
Altea makes a half noise underneath her breath, already feeling drowsy, and begins to drift away into sleep.  
I turn my gaze to the blanket once more, content to let her use my shoulder as a pillow.  
The blanket isn’t likely to win best design of the year, for sure, but it’s still a remarkable work of art. It’s messy, not properly stitched, yet heartwarming. Each pink thread has been woven by her with delicacy, each pattern carefully crafted, and, more than anything, each stitch speaks volumes about how much its maker loved her son.  
My expression smooths over into a kind smile and I trace my fingers over my womb.  
“You will like it won’t you, little one? Your mother made it just for you,” I whisper.  
I don’t get a reply, of course I don’t, but it’s almost like I can feel something in me warm up.-  
Almost like our child has heard me and has offered his silent, yet sincere, agreement.


End file.
